


What He Wants

by malfoymoonrise (pinkandcurvy)



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: 1992sies, Gay Newsies, M/M, NSFW, Newsies - Freeform, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, anyways i like how this turned out and i actually like. finished it so please read it, look spot has issues but he really wants race's DICK, m/m - Freeform, newsies (1992) - Freeform, referenced jack kelly, spot/race - Freeform, sprace, they're homosexuals susan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 19:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18505477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkandcurvy/pseuds/malfoymoonrise
Summary: Normally, Spot Conlon knew how to get what he wanted, which was a luxury and a comfort; but now he didn’t know what he wanted or how to get it; not even how to articulate it.And God damn, that was exciting.





	What He Wants

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE feel free to leave comments and/or kudos! They're very appreciated! I love any kind of constructive feedback. If you see any errors in the mechanics, grammar, or spelling, let me know and I'll fix it. Thank you for reading this shit, I put off working on like three school projects to finish it lmao

Spot Conlon knew how to get what he wanted. If Spot wanted coffee, he got coffee. If Spot wanted someone to disappear, they’d disappear. If Spot wanted to meet with someone, he met with them. This was probably the biggest perk of being proclaimed King of Brooklyn - his name held so much weight that most other things didn’t matter. Of course, this didn’t apply so much when talking to big shots that didn’t play by the rules of the street, but Spot had an influence on every newsie in the New York area and every sewer rat alike. 

Naturally, this meant that when Spot couldn’t get what he wanted, it pissed him off. Spot was currently in a situation - albeit more complicated - where that was exactly what was happening. Spot had been able to charm various women back to his quarters without a problem; the Brooklyn newsies wouldn’t dare tease or question their King about a hookup or a relationship with a woman. However, a woman wasn’t what Spot wanted. Not at all. When Spot thought about what he wanted, what he really craved, the only thing that came to his mind was thin lips tucked around a cigar. 

Damn that cigar to hell and back, Spot often thought. If it hadn’t been for that cigar, Spot never would’ve noticed that lanky blonde boy standing outside the Sheepshead Bay Racetrack. Without that cigar, Spot never would’ve punched said boy right in his smart-ass mouth. Without that cigar, Spot wouldn’t have even dreamt of having someone - a newsie, no less - speak to him with anything less than the utmost respect (and maybe a tinge of fear). Without that cigar, Spot would have been able to sleep easy instead of flipping over night after night, trying to forget those god damn lips.

Without that cigar, Spot wouldn’t be sending off one of the little newsies to fetch Racetrack Higgins from the Manhattan sanctuary.

Spot wasn’t at all concerned as to what Kelly and his boys would think of Spot requesting the presence of Manhattan’s second; the dolts wouldn’t blink twice at it, and at the most, they’d be preparing Race for a good soakin’. He was more so concerned with what the fuck he was going to do. Spot had taken to visiting Race’s regular selling area at least once a week, feigning excuses left and right, and smoking with him for a while whilst the two of them discussed goings on in the different turfs - being Jack Kelly’s second, Race had every liberty to speak with Spot about goings-on, it was just unusual in most situations. There had been many of those times when Race would say something very vague and would give a Look as if it meant something, but until very recently, all of those things had been flying over Spot’s head (which wasn’t very hard, him being 5’4” and all).

The realization had finally hit him two days ago as he leaned against the wall of Sheepshead, cigar in mouth, silently listening to whatever Race was going on about that day. 

\----

“-it’s really obvious that the two of them are gettin’ it on, ya know? Like, if ya’s gonna be breakin’ laws, you’se better be doin’ it more subtly. If Albert, for one, was to find out that there was another queer newsie, I’m sure the bastard’s head would fly clear off! It’d be like a baseball show!”

Spot nearly choked - Manhattan had... queers? From what he knew about that group of newsies, they were all very close, but none of them gave off any sort of stench - except Davey, but Spot would never mention that to anybody. Normally, Spot was an expert and being able to tell when a guy jerked to other guys. He’d had to have more than a few personal talks with his boys, letting know that it was okay, they just couldn’t be open about it; Snyder didn’t need another reason to arrest any of his boys, and there were plenty of other Brooklyn newsies that were just aching to soak a queer. 

Clearing his throat, Spot turned to look at Race, his stature as casual as possible, “Another? Manhattan’s got more queers?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. I can’t say who they is of course, but they’s all confiding in me. They’s scared to go to Jack, I think, but even more scared to be alone,” Race’s tone had changed from playful to solemn (as solemn as Race could get, which wasn’t very). “Back when I had a ma, she had me in a Catholic school. I’s seen enough boys get soaked by priests than I care to remember. They never held back there, really thought they could ‘beat the devil’ out of us - the things they’d do-” Race stopped as a shudder took over him, and Spot tilted his head a little bit, willing him to continue, “-shit’s heinous, Spotty. You could feel the burn on your asscheeks for a month after, and sometimes they hit us so hard our fingers broke.”

Spot stood silently for a moment, once again taking a long drag from his cigar. Race mimicked his actions. The two of them had conversations every time Spot came by, but it was very rare that either of them ever talked about themselves personally. Spot had never brought up anything that had to do with himself unless it had to do with a good rumble. Until that moment, Spot hadn’t had any idea that Race had once had a mother, much less that he’d gone to Catholic school. Pausing his thought process, Spot felt the gears in his head creaking to a halt.

“Hold on, Race,” Spot’s eyebrows came together and his head tilted more to the side, “Whaddya mean, ‘us’? Was you one of the kids they was soakin’?”

There was a brief pause.

Spot studied Race’s face, his wide, frightened eyes, his eyebrows raised until his forehead creased, the way his bottom lip hung lamely and created no sound. Race didn’t have to answer Spot because Spot could tell just by the expression on his face exactly what the answer was. 

“Oh, well,” Spot straightened back up, “Growin’ up on the streets ain’t much different. I mean, the priests didn’t exactly jump outta their socks to soak kids, but gangs sure did. One word about you bein’ a fag or a commie and you was dead meat. Ya learn how to lie or change or else you’se gettin’ pulled into a back alley and never seein’ the sun rise again,” Spot felt his insides begin to stir as he spoke - it was common knowledge that he’d grown up on the streets of New York, that being how he’d taken control of the entire Brooklyn area, but he’d never spoken a word about any of his childhood with anybody before then. It felt... weird. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. “Look, I - uh, I gotta go, my boys probably need me right now. I’ll see ya around, Higgins.”

“Yeah,” Race had an expression on his face that wasn’t much different than that of a child’s receiving candy, “Yeah, I should go too. I’m sure Jack needs me back, the sun’s gettin’ low. I’ll see ya Spotty - you know where to find me.”

With that, the two parted ways.

\----

Since then, Spot hadn’t been able to stop his mind from whirring back and forth. If Race had really meant... what if everything was different than Spot had thought? What if all of those daring nudges Race loved to antagonize Spot with were more than just friendly touches? What if the compliments Race gave him every time they talked were genuine and meant... something? Spot needed to know. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he did. Spot had absolutely no intention of soakin’ the kid, there was no reason for that, but he wasn’t sure how to hold a calm conversation without freaking Racetrack out and inadvertently creating a fight. Talking had never exactly been Spot’s strong suit.

A knock on his door pulled Spot from his reverie, though the door didn’t open - even the densest of newsies knew never to open Spot’s door without his permission - which gave him a second to prepare himself. A quick once over in the mirror allowed Spot to straighten out the twist in his red suspenders and decide against wearing his normal flat cap, though his appearance didn’t really matter the more he thought about it. “It’s open,” Spot called when he was content, standing with his hands clasped behind him and his spine straight. 

Spot didn’t bother changing his position even after the door had been shut behind Race and the two of them were alone. There was a beat of silence as they both stood, neither daring to break their eye contact until it suddenly became too much and Race opened his mouth.

“Jack said this had better be important. Makes him nervous, you callin’ his second up,” Race waited for a second, “...Alone.”

Rolling his eyes subtly, Spot unclasped his hands and strode over to the only window in the room, cracking it a little, “I don’t care about what Kelly’s gotta say about what I do,” he retorted coldly. Spot leaned against the wall next to the window and motioned his head towards Race, signaling that he should do the same. The look in Race’s eyes said it all - he was scared. Spot really couldn’t blame him.

As he shuffled over, Race’s ‘deer-in-headlights’ expression intensified and Spot couldn’t hold in his smirk; it always gave him a kick when others couldn’t contain their anticipation, as if they’d completely forgotten that Spot, though King of Brooklyn, was still just a newsie and had about as much power in a court of law as they did. “Is you gonna throw me out?”

“Of the window?”

“...Yeah.”

Spot cleared his throat. “No, I’m not gonna toss ya, Race. I opened it so’s you could smoke,” he rolled his eyes, “Because ya smoke when ya get anxious.”

“Who says I’m anxious,” Race mumbled quietly, though the shaking of his fingers was very visible as he opened a new cigar wrapper and lit it, puffing deeply. “So, ah, why’d ya call me here?”

“We needed to talk,” he clarified, his tone as even as ever. Spot was a little bit scared - a new emotion for him - but that didn’t mean that he’d show it at all, especially for something like this. Talking to a second from Manhattan didn’t have to hold any weight if Spot didn’t want it to. There was really no easy way to start this conversation and Spot knew that, but the realization was really only hitting him just then as he watched a large puff of smoke roll from Race’s lips and out the window. What on Earth was Spot supposed to say? ‘Hey, I think you’se is flirting with me and I can’t sleep because of it,’? ‘I’ve told you more about my past than I’ve told anyone, ever, and I want you to forget it,’? No, neither of those options sounded right. Spot had to say something to break the silence though because Race had stopped puffing his cigar and was looking over expectantly and jeez, did that make Spot want to squirm. “You’se’a queer.” Spot wanted to smack himself over the head. What the hell type of conversation starter was that? Immediately, everything skittered to a halt around them and both of the boys fell silent. Their eyes locked and Spot could see Race’s eyes begin to glaze over with tears (of panic, no doubt). The only thing he could do now was backtrack, “I’m not soakin’ ya, and I’m not talkin’ to others, I’s just,” Spot gulped, “Talk, Racetrack, before I keep yappin’.”

“Um,” Race’s voice trembled distinctively, “I-I don’t know what you want me to say? I mean,” he stood from his position on the wall and paced, clearly trying to avoid eye contact. His cigar still hung limply from between his lips. “I’m not tryin’ ta get arrested. Is this... necessary? Do you need to know this for somethin’?”

“Well, I’m just tryin’ ta figure things out,” Spot nodded, also pushing his way off of the wall, “The way youse been actin’ around me - is that you bein’ queer with me? Or is it just you bein’ a little annoying shit?” Raising his eyebrow, Spot crossed to where Race was - that pacing was fucking annoying, it was going to drive him crazy. “Stop that pacin’ before I sweep ya legs out,” Spot reached out, grabbing Race by the wrist, and immediately the latter stopped his movements, instead opting to stare down at Spot, still retaining the panicked look his eyes had adopted. 

“Spotty-”

Spot straightened his spine and shifted; now probably wasn’t a good time for Race to be using informal addresses.

Race’s eyes moved from Spot’s own, shifting to where Spot still had his hand clasped around Race’s bony wrist before trailing back up to maintain eye contact. Spot clenched his jaw. “Spot, I- look, youse the King of Brooklyn, I couldn’t- I wouldn’t dare to- Just because I... Look,” Race shifted and slowly turned his wrist in Spot’s grip so he could add his own leverage, gripping back (though his touch was much lighter, much more tedious). “You can stop comin’ Sheepshead whenever you want, Spot. I can’t stop sellin’ there.”

The implications were clear. There was no doubt in Spot’s mind exactly what Race had meant by saying that, and judging by the intent behind Race’s eyes, Spot figured he was aware of what he was implying as well. Race’s normally smiling mouth curved down into a grimace as he took a long drag off his still lit cigar, and Spots eyes automatically dashed down to the motion - it was obvious that Race was making a performance out of this action as his cheeks hollowed around the inhalation and his grimace was teased with a hint of a cocky smirk. Spot wanted to punch him. 

Damn that fucking cigar.

Before Spot was even sure what he was doing, Race was cornered between him and the nearest wall, cigar long forgotten, and pure fear written all over his face. Spot growled quietly - what the fuck was he doing? Nobody would bother them, let alone see them, and that meant nobody could stop them. Their former grip remained steady, though now Race was holding on to Spot’s wrist much harder. Spot had no fucking clue what was going to happen next. As far as he could see it, he had two options: sock Race straight in the jaw and never return to the railroad again or risk everything he knew, everything he’d been taught, just to answer a simple fucking question. There was absolutely no doubt in Spot’s mind as to what he should do.

At least, that was until Race loosened his grip once again, switching from a death hold into soft, gentle... strokes? Was Race really stroking Spot’s wrist right then? The tender motion sent an unfamiliar shock into Spot’s chest; he was sure he looked like a bewildered idiot if Race’s newly adopted expression was anything to go by. Race’s eyes had quickly changed from fear to something completely unreadable to Spot. That was a terrifying concept. Spot didn’t like not being able to read people, not one bit.

“What the fuck’s that look for, Higgins?” Spot spat out, attempting not to trip over any of his words and failing miserably. He didn’t recognize any of the things going on inside of his brain and his chest, not to mention his stomach.

The only answer Spot received from Race before being promptly spun was a smile. The only thing that registered with Spot about his position was that his back was definitely against the wall, and now it was him who was holding onto Race for dear life. The foreign feelings etching through Spot made him want to punch something, they made him want to shove Race away and have him escorted back to the Manhattan lodging, but something - one of those feelings, probably - had frozen him in place. Spot couldn’t bring himself to move or even to breathe, not even as Race leaned down, closer and closer to Spot’s face until the taller boy had his lips almost touching Spot’s ear, those of which burned with the fire of a thousand suns.

Anything that Spot had been thinking or feeling previously screeched to a halt as he tried desperately to remember how to breathe. It was nearly impossible, what with Race’s own breath caressing his cheekbone, brushing onto his ear as gently as a kitten’s first mewl. Spot was completely still.

“Your heart, Spotty,” Race finally spoke, popping the ‘p’ in Spot’s name and making Spot’s knees feel like jello. This was all new. This was all terrifying. Spot fucking loved it- no, shit, no he didn’t. He hated it. He had to. This was illegal, this was disgusting, they could be caught at any second and thrown into jail or a refuge or much worse. Spot knew he had to act out to stop this before things went any further, he couldn’t stay King of Brooklyn if he was queer. He’d be nothing more than street trash. None of this could happen. “Your heart’s goin’ at the speed of sound.” Race breathed again and suddenly everything that had worried Spot before melted away. All he could concentrate on was the heat between the two of them and how fucking nice it felt to feel something as simple as a breath against his cheek.

And then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t just breath. Lips were making careful contact with his cheek where his stubble began, just below his cheekbones. Spot sucked in a sharp breath of air. The lips - Race’s lips, the lips of a man - had begun trailing slowly closer towards Spot’s own. It felt like centuries before Spot actually felt Race’s lips come in contact with anywhere near his own; however, as soon as it started it had stopped. Spot hadn’t even realized that his eyes had fallen shut until they flew open at the abrupt loss. Nose to nose with Racetrack Fucking Higgins, Spot looked on warily, question clear behind his eyes. If Spot was going to beat Race up he would’ve done it by now, Race had to know that, so why was he hesitating?

It only took a second of eye contact between the two before Race leaned in once again to directly kiss Spot on the mouth. The second Spot felt the contact, any tense muscle in his body relaxed and he just let himself exist in the moment - that was, of course, until Race’s once gentle kiss started becoming more insistent, and Spot was brought back to reality. There was a singular moment of panic in which Spot wondered what the FUCK he was supposed to be doing with any given part of his body, but he quickly overcame it, slipping easily into the kiss. 

Kissing a man was much different than kissing a woman, Spot realized. With women, it was all soft lips, all waiting for him to take the lead, long hair and longer necks. However, kissing Race wasn’t anything like that. Race pushed when Spot pushed and even before then - their intensity was matched easily - and his lips weren’t any form of soft. There was some stubble growing along Race’s upper lip that agitated where Spot’s own stubble was, but Spot didn’t mind. It felt so fucking right to be kissing Race right then, Spot almost forgot about the world around them.

Spot would easily admit to being extremely dominant in the bedroom (which wasn’t a surprise to anybody), so it was almost natural for his hand came up to tangle in Race’s curls, those of which he tugged at gently. Having received a rather pleasing reaction from this, meaning Race had fumbled momentarily and gasped against Spot’s lips, Spot gave a more insistent pull, drawing a soft whimper from low in the other boy’s throat. With a cocky smirk, Spot took full advantage of the new surface area presented to him and slid gentle kisses along Race’s exposed neck. Clearly, this had been the correct move, because Race closed the space between them, bringing his hands to grip onto Spot’s shoulders from support. 

Maybe kissing a man wasn’t all too different, or maybe it was because Race was inexperienced, but Spot was confident that taking control was going to be much easier than he had anticipated. If the gentle, intermittent pressure that Race was nudging against Spot’s leg was anything to go by, then Spot was doing perfectly fine. With a new burst of confidence Spot parted his lips, just where the edge of Race’s shirt met his neck, and swiped his tongue experimentally - the other boy tasted like sweat and soap, but Spot didn’t really mind - before latching down and sucking the same spot, just barely letting his teeth graze the surface. Underneath his working lips, Race let out another, somehow more pathetic, noise.

“Spotty, fuck,” Race groaned quietly, pressing impossible closer, “What’ll the boys think?” It was a breathy and unloaded question, but Spot growled regardless, pulling back. Shit, that was a mark that wasn’t going away for a hot second. Race’s neck now had a dark purple bruise forming. 

Spot couldn’t help but feel proud, “Damn them, Higgins, just tell them you met a girl.”

“Or a leech.”

Spot raised one eyebrow, “So you’re telling me that I shouldn’t have done that?” Before Race got a chance to retort, Spot pressed forward with one of his legs, pushing against the seam of Race’s jeans, “Are you sure about that?”

Race was speechless, too focused on the newly returned pressure between his legs, and instead of a response he just ducked back down to capture Spot’s lips once again. Proud of his ability to render the noisiest motherfucker known to man silent, Spot eagerly met Race’s request with newfound confidence. He used his leverage between Race’s legs wisely, rolling his knee up against Race’s crotch - his partner was already unbearably hard, the pressure of jeans surely had to be torture, but Spot admittedly had no idea what to do past that point. He’d never so much as seen another man’s dick (save the flasher across the street, but just from the pressure Spot could tell that Race was considerably larger), and it was very rare that he got himself off. The only thing he knew about dicks was what felt good on him, and that had all been due to feeling women do things - Spot had no fucking clue if the same things would feel right on Race or if he’d even be able to apply those things similarly. 

It took him by an immeasurable amount of surprise when Race slid fully against him, his dick now pressing just above Spot’s waistline, and by doing so swept his own leg against Spot’s lower regions. Before that moment, Spot hadn’t even noticed his own pressure, but god DAMN he was much harder than he would’ve imagined. Spot’s eyes flew open, panic overtaking his body momentarily, and he shoved. 

“What the fuck was that,” Spot whispered to himself with still wide eyes and now shaking hands. He was reacting irrationally and he knew this. Everything that had happened had happened with his consent - enthusiasm, even - but he couldn’t stop the blood from racing to his head. Was he fucking stupid? Who did he think he was, getting off to kissing a man? Spot was straight as a shot from his slingshot, he wasn’t any type of queer. “Higgins, I asked you a question; what. The. FUCK. Was that?” Spot tried to hold back, he really did, but the panic was rushing quickly through his veins and turning into anger faster than he could blink. “I’m not fucking queer, what the fuck?” Contrary to this claim, Spot was enraptured by the absolute mess that was Racetrack Higgins at that moment. The Manhattan newsie’s hair was tangled every which way, his face was bright red, and (not to mention the elephant in the room) his dick was pressing very prominently against his jeans. Judging by Racetrack’s line of vision, Spot wasn’t in a much better condition. “I’m not a queer, I’m not,” Spot reiterated. Somewhere in the back of his mind Spot knew that he was reassuring himself more than he was aiming his comments towards Race, but that wasn’t a thought he was willing to dwell on. “I don’t... I can’t.. I’m not into...”

“Dick?” Spot glared at Race though he didn’t deny the claim. “Look, Spot; I ain’t sayin’ this happens every day, it sure as hell doesn’t, but you didn’t seem too opposed to this a few moments ago. If you’s scared I’ll go blabbin’ to the others you’re dead wrong - I’m at risk just as much as you are here. I know the consequences, I know what happens to fellas like me - like us - but If you can keep your trap shut, I can keep mine shut too.”

Spot almost socked Race in the jaw right then and there but he restrained himself; sure, Race was getting a bit bold, but he’d had his tongue down Spot’s throat just a minute ago, so Spot had to admit he’d kind of earned the right. Considering Race’s words, Spot chewed gently on the inside corner of his lip contemplatively. There was no doubt in his mind that what he and Racetrack had been doing felt good, but just because it had felt good didn’t make it right, did it? Absolutely not. There were laws against men being together for a reason - there had to be a reason for the laws against sodomy and the deep-rooted hatred for homosexuals in the church, didn’t there? Spot shook his head - there were too many questions running through his mind and he didn’t know the answer to any of them. What would happen after today? If they continued with their business, would it happen again? Would they never speak of it? Could things ever be the same?

Did Spot want them to stay the same?

“Racetrack..” Spot trailed off, struggling to find words. This was difficult. Very difficult. “Look - I don’t- What is this even?” Motioning between the two of them with his hand, Spot raised his eyebrows emphatically, hoping to any higher being that Race would at least know the answer to that.

“What do you want it to be?”

Spot huffed out a breath; that answer was absolutely no help, “I don’t know, Race - this isn’t something that I normally do, I mean, obviously, but just.. Bein’ with people in general. I’m not good at it. I like our friendship how’s it is and I’m sure I’m going to ruin things by gettin’ weird and cagey and violent because that’s what I do, but I don’t want that to happen. Besides,” Spot tried to force a low laugh, “Nobody else can play cards like you, who else would be worthy competition?”

This, apparently, had taken Racetrack aback. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say. “Spot, if you don’t want to-”

“No!” Spot had cut Race off (perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, but he wouldn’t admit that). “That’s not what I’m sayin’ at all. I mean, I think this is probably wrong, there’s laws against it for a reason, but that don’t mean that I don’t want it.”

Oh.

Oh, that had been an admittance that Spot hadn’t thought he was going to make. It was already said though, and since there wasn’t a lie to be found within his words, Spot found it wisest not to try to backtrack. 

“I want it too, Spotty,” Racetrack took a step closer, daring now to reach down and grab Spot’s fingers with his own, sending chills down Spot’s spine. “I don’t know what’s goin’ ta happen in the future, I really don’t, but I’ve learned that life is short - like, really fucking short - and we won’t ever know until we try. So, by that logic, if we both want it... Why don’t we just take it for what it is right now and go with it?”

Spot nodded slowly, trying to process everything that Race was saying to him while also trying his absolute hardest to ignore the fire that sprung from every touch the two of them shared. It was a difficult feat, but somehow, Spot’s horned-out ape brain managed to come to a conclusion. Racer was right. Not only was he right, but he was sincere, and that in and of itself was enough to convince Spot to tilt his head, using his free hand to grasp the taller boy by the nape of his neck and pull him down into a kiss, much gentler than before. This wasn’t just lust anymore, this kiss was about understanding and agreement, and a mutual decision to put their lives on the line no matter the cost - even if that meant tomorrow came and they never spoke again. 

It wasn’t long until their tender moment to gain flame to it once again, seeing as the moment Race opened his mouth to let in a content sigh Spot jumped at the opportunity to reinstate his control. The two of them started going at it with as much, if not more, fervor than they had just a few minutes ago. It took a good 30 seconds for Spot to back Race up (blindly and with much trouble) to the edge of his bed, letting Racetrack fall back onto his rear and seizing the opportunity to straddle him as it was presented. It was pure instinct that caused Spot to roll his hips, but shit, was it a good fucking instinct. Both boys had to pull apart for a moment as Race let out a very manly whine and Spot emitted his own noise - he’d never made that noise before for sure, and there was really no word for it, besides something deep and guttural. 

“Spot - Jesus - you sure you’ve never done this before?”

Spot allowed a shaky laugh, though it was cut off as he repeated the action and replaced by another one of those unnamable noises, “Dead certain.”

When Spot opened his eyes (when on Earth had he closed them? He hadn’t recalled that bit), he looked down to find Racetrack staring back, wide-eyed and flushed, and Spot instantly became self-conscious, “Is this- Is this okay for you? I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Race breathed in return, his exhale shaky and stuttering, “Fuck, sweetheart, that feels so good, don’t fucking stop.” And oh apparently that was a thing because Spot felt his legs go weak and his throat involuntarily released a whine, not unlike the one that Race had made before. Both of them froze for a second before Race spoke again, “Is that something you like? Names? Or- or is it the praise?”

Spot, mortified, squeezed his eyes shut, “I don’t, uh, I don’t know. Nobody’s ever, like... Said anything like that to me,” cracking open one eyes cautiously, Spot let out a sigh, “Ever.”

"Alright," Racetrack swallowed, clearly unsure of what he should do next. To be fair, both of them were pretty inexperienced and nervous.

If this had been any other situation, Spot would’ve bailed right then and there. Tension wasn’t something he dealt with well. However, this wasn’t any other situation, and despite how ashamed he felt, Spot didn’t want to lose this feeling right as it had begun; he leaned back in towards Race, reconnecting their lips with an exhale of desperation. His legs were still weak somehow, and he couldn’t bring himself to move his hips as he had been previously, but that problem was soon to be solved if Race’s newfound grip on his waist had anything to say about it. 

In tandem with directed Spot’s movements, Race was now barely, almost imperceptibly, rolling up to meet him in the middle - Spot could’ve sworn there were actual fireworks going on behind his eyes. Not like the fireworks he’d read about in books when discussing romance, but hot, burning embers that exploded erratically. Everything was so much. So much pleasure, so much need, so much want, so much... everything. 

And yet Spot wanted more. 

With a low growl Spot shoved against Racetrack’s chest, sending the other boy’s upper half falling back on the bed. Spot kept his hand resting on his lover’s chest, reveling in the feeling of an unsteady thrum beneath his fingers, for just a moment as he drank in the sight before him. Race was flushed a deep pink, his hair was tousled, and the marks Spot had left earlier had darkened to a deep purple. Racetrack was the definition of a hot mess. In no universe was it fair for one man to hold so much raw sexual energy. 

Egged on by Race’s flustered and confused - yet completely open - gaze, Spot trailed his hand upward, leaning forward with the movement, until his thumb rest gently on one side of Racetrack’s trachea, the other side occupied identically with the remainder of Spot’s fingers. By then, Spot was leaning entirely over Race, faces hovering inches apart. A subtle movement, though it was a clear message, caught Spot’s attention: Race (while maintaining their heated eye contact, his lips parted just barely) tilted his chin up in the slightest, baring his neck just a bit more than it had been before. 

An unspoken question passed between them with a simple raise of Spot’s eyebrow, and Race nodded in answer, “Yes, please do.”

That was all Spot needed to hear. Once again, the Italian latched his lips onto Racetrack’s, though this time he paired this motion with a gentle squeeze. Instantly, Race reacted, moaning softly into Spot’s mouth and consequently allowing Spot the advantage he so desperately craved. He’d learned from previous (unfortunate) experiences that the whole ‘dominating your partner’s mouth with your tongue’ is actually fucking disgusting and made to seem a whole lot better than it actually was, so instead of that frankly very uncomfortable motion, Spot ran his tongue subtly across the tip of Race’s, just barely intruding. Race tasted like cigar smoke and mint and spot fucking loved it. 

Spot was only further encouraged when he noticed cold fingertips ghosting under the hem of his shirt, sneaking up and running over his stomach. Shivering, he pulled back from Race only to dive back down after removing his own shirt. The shy hand was clearly alright with this, shown as soon as Racetrack took this opportunity to skim the newly exposed surface area, just barely scratching with dull nails. It wasn’t fair, Spot decided, that he was the most exposed in this situation, and began using his free hand to imitate Race’s actions, teasing the hem of his shirt until Race gave in similarly. 

With the two of them shirtless, Spot couldn’t help but stay sitting back, admiring the view before him - Spot swore that he could look at Racetrack all fucking day if he had the chance. Race was much less built than Spot was. Where Spot had biceps and muscled shoulders, Race was smooth lines and flushed skin. It wasn’t uncommon for newsies to be slim due to malnourishment - Spot himself could see his own ribs most of the time, but because of the lack of muscle it was more noticeable on Racetrack. His shoulders were pointy where his bones pressed against his skin and his ribs were well defined. Yes, Racetrack was still beautiful, but it scared Spot just a little to see him so tiny. He had to remind himself that most Newsies were this thin, most of them were all bones and stretched skin from hawking papers and not making enough to afford food most nights of the week, especially since the older ones since they tended to give up what meals they could afford to the littles (Spot himself was very guilty of this, though it was a necessity he didn’t mind most of the times). 

Spot made a mental note to save portions of his meals for when he saw Racetrack, determined to aid in getting him back to health as best he could.

“You’re beautiful,” Spot breathed, leaning down from where he was straddling Race to leave gentle kisses across his collarbone, his chest, his neck - anywhere that Spot could reach, he showered in adoration. “So fucking beautiful, Racetrack.” Race seemed to drink in the affection, tangling his hands in Spot’s hair and tugging gently. Continuing to leave kisses along Race’s upper half, Spot returned to grinding his hips down onto the other boy’s. Both of them were so insanely hard. Spot was sure he wouldn’t last much longer if Racetrack kept making those quiet, needy noises that escaped every time Spot switched from kissing to leaving hickeys. He’d never been so turned on in his entire life, and before it even happened Spot knew that this orgasm was going to be one of the best he’d ever had. 

Mostly because he’d be sharing it with Racetrack. Not that anybody except them would know about that, of course, but they knew and that was enough.

Race’s little noises were rapidly becoming louder and God, Spot could listen to that forever, but he knew it would end soon - it was clear that Race was getting closer to his peak. Beneath him, Racetrack’s hips rolled up to meet his sporadically. Soon, Race was babbling nonsense and fisting his hands in Spot’s hair, pulling so hard it hurt (not that Spot was complaining).

“Sp- Jesus! Fuck, Spot, please, I’m about to- Oh god, please, fuck, don’t stop,” with these words, Race let out the most pathetic noise yet - it was a cross between a keen and a grunt - and his body shook underneath Spot’s ministrations. Despite his total lack of knowledge of what came after this fact, Spot was somehow able to drink this in as he had just barely pulled his mouth away from Race’s chest in time to catch his expression. Spot hadn’t thought before that it was possible for Racetrack to be any more beautiful, but he had been dead wrong. The way Race’s eyes rolled back, subtly crossing, and his jaw came loose to drop into an ‘o’ was a sight Spot knew he wouldn’t forget until he was six feet under.

Spot slowed to a stop at the feeling of Race’s body relaxing and his breathing returning back to normal, allowing him some time to recuperate. Racetrack would have to borrow a spare set of bottoms when he left later because there was no way in hell Spot would let him walk back to Manhattan with his jizz stains drawing everyone’s eyes down to his crotch. That would cause too many questions and too much embarrassment. However, despite knowing that much, Spot had no fucking clue what came next. He assumed he was supposed to get off - the ride was clearly over - but he didn’t know if they were supposed to just lay there, if he was supposed to go finish himself off, if Racetrack was planning to leave immediately. There were endless possibilities and the shroud of questions quickly overtaking Spot’s mind were making him panic. Decisively, Spot rolled off to the side of Racetrack, laying next to the worn out boy on his back.

“Hey, where ya goin?” Race’s voice was slurred and a little breathy and way too hot for Spot to handle. 

“Jus’ gettin’ off of you so’s you can breathe,” he responded as nonchalantly as he was physically able. Spot’s voice was strained from his still aching need for release, but he wouldn’t ever admit that; though, really, his lower regions were admitting everything for him at this moment. Speaking of lower regions, Spot nearly jumped out of his skin at the feeling of Race’s still cold fingertips brushing back over his stomach. He hadn’t expected that, that much was for sure. “What’re you doing, Racetrack?”

Race had rolled onto his side, supporting himself on one elbow while his other hand occupied itself with roaming further down and just barely grazing Spot’s hipbone. Spot sucked in a sharp breath. “Well, I can’t just leave ya like this,” Race’s face was now out of Spot’s blind spot so he was fully able to see the coy smile that was painted on the corner of his lips behind the blue of his eyes. “That’d be mean, don’t-cha think so, Spotty?”

“Racetrack, you don’t have to if you don’t want- Jesus!” Spot was cut off at the feeling of Race’s hand grasping his dick roughly through his pants, making its presence known. “Holy fuck,” Spot murmured as he scrunched his eyes shut firmly.

“There a problem?”

Sighing in exasperation, Spot chewed on his lower lip, “No, no problem,” his voice had gone much higher than he cared to admit, but he couldn’t really bring himself to give a fuck; not when Race’s hand started pressing and moving, getting Spot off through his clothing. God, that was really fucking hot. Spot nearly died where he lay at the feeling of Race’s lips pressing gently to the side of his neck and then backing off just enough so he could blow a puff of cold air on the now wetted surface area. Instead of dying, however, Spot simply shivered and arched into any sensation that he felt. This drew something akin to a chuckle from Race.

“Does that feel nice, sweetheart? Did you like that?” Race’s voice had lost the breathy tone, now gone completely raspy and fucked out. It certainly sounded like he’d just orgasmed, and maybe he knew that, though it might’ve been partially due to the way Spot groaned at the sound of his voice. However, Spot couldn’t bring himself to answer, his jaw clenched shut from the effort of trying not to let any sound escape. It was a much more difficult feat than he was used to, but then again, this situation was much different from any he’d been in before. “Answer the question,” Race insisted.

Spot wished he could, he really fucking did, but the way Race was breathing the words directly onto his ear was causing Spot’s brain to short circuit, so the most he could really manage was a breathy, “Fuck.” This seemed to be a good enough answer for Racetrack though, seeing as he hummed contentedly, moving his lips down to wrap around Spot’s earlobe- and oh, fuck, those were teeth. Spot’s jaw unhinged and he involuntarily let out the most pitiful, broken whimper known to man.

Racetrack bit down very lightly and sucked down, and Spot was a goner. His vision flashed red and his eyes flew open, his mouth falling open at the same time as his hips thrust violently up into Race’s touch. He was sure some sort of noise must’ve come out but it was completely lost to his ringing ears as his body forced the most powerful orgasm he’d ever had out of his body.

It took a few seconds for the world to come back into focus around him, but when it did, all Spot could center his vision on was Racetrack’s beautiful eyes. His first impression of Race’s eyes, Spot remembered, was that they looked like the sky when the fog had cleared and the sun was out, but he would later slap himself for daring to even think about comparing those beautiful baby blues to something so mundane. There were no words for the color of Race’s eyes - at least, no words that Spot was aware of - and he honestly thought it should stay that way. Racetrack’s eyes were swimming with flecks of gold and green and auburn and coated with a thick layer of the brightest blue Spot had ever seen: they were beautiful, point blank, period.

“You okay?”

Spot snapped out of his hazy state to return back to planet Earth, once again met with the sight of Racetrack’s eyes. With as much of a smile as he could muster, Spot nodded - his throat was too sore to verbally respond, so he hoped that would suffice. It was only a few moments later that the exhaustion hit him fully, and though he knew he had to get up to find Racetrack (and himself) a new pair of underclothes, he wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep for 5 million years.

For a moment they both just laid there in silent bliss, Race’s head resting on Spot’s chest and one of Spot’s hands absently toying with Racetrack’s curls. This felt right, no doubt. Any previous concerns about morality Spot had been pondering were gone. Just laying with Racetrack, their breathing overlapping, felt like the closest Spot had been to heaven in a long time, and in that moment he understood why people would go to church every Sunday just to sing their praises to something nobody could be sure actually existed, something that he’d lost faith in long ago.

Forcing himself up (much to the chagrin of a clingy, lanky boy who really just wanted him to lay back down), Spot walked tediously over to the folded pile of clothes lying on his floor and carefully plucked up two clean pairs of underwear and loose pants, praying to everything holy that he wasn’t so much shorter than Racetrack that the pants wouldn’t fit him. “You’ll have to change before you leave, don’t want people lookin’ at you funny or askin’ questions.”

Race was silent for a beat, “Yeah,” another minute of silence, this time occupied by both of them changing their bottoms with the least amount of discomfort possible for two guys who had just made each other come in their pants. The bottoms fit Race, though they rose up quite a bit, almost halfway to his knee, and Spot blushed - those pants were long if anything when he wore them, constantly getting swept under his feet and getting the hems dirty. “Hey, Spot?”

“Hm?”

Race seemed to be thinking hard, Spot noticed, examining the other’s face as the two of them stood, now fully clothed.

“Was this... Is this something that’s just happening this one time?”

Spot paused, “Um,” he swallowed thickly and diverted his gaze, “Do you want it to be?”

“No! No, um,” thankfully, Racetrack was being just as awkward as Spot was about this, so that took some shame out of the situation, “If it’s alright with you, I’d like for this to happen again.”

Spot’s heart skipped a beat in his chest at the anxiety and implications laced into those words, but he was quick with a response, not wanting to worry Racetrack any more than he already was, “I want that too.”

“You do?”

With a nod, Spot returned his focus to Race’s face, daring to make eye contact, “Yeah, I do,” Spot let out a shaky breath and tried his best not to look completely uncomfortable.

“Oh, okay, um,” Race was nodding now, and somehow he seemed more awkward about this than Spot felt. Thank heavens. “Well, it’s dark out now-” Spot glanced at his still open window and realized that this was correct. Before Race could finish, Spot cut him off.

“You should stay here tonight,” both of them were shocked silent for a second, neither boy really believing what Spot had just said, “I mean, for safety reasons, obviously, and my bed’s big enough to fit us both if we’s ain’t sprawlin’ out like beached whales.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Race nodded, yawning in a way that Spot couldn’t quite tell if it was fake or not, but regardless reminded him of his own exhaustion. Every muscle in his body was aching for rest and his brain couldn’t agree more.

Without another word, the two of them crawled underneath the covers of Spot’s bed and pressed themselves together tightly (they wouldn’t have had the choice to separate even if they had wanted to). Race’s arm slung casually over Spot’s still naked torso, pulling him impossibly closer, and it remained there, a gentle reminder of his presence. There would be questions to answer in the morning, though Spot was sure they weren’t heard by anyone, it was still sus to have another person spend the night in his bunk in a borough that that person didn’t belong to, but Spot would worry about that when the morning came.

For now, he concentrated on the steady rise and fall of Racetrack’s chest behind him, his breath ghosting at the nape of Spot’s neck in a way that would’ve driven him crazy earlier but was more so comforting now, and the sounds of an occasional horse clopping by from the alley underneath Spot’s window. Yeah, this felt right. For sure.

Normally, Spot Conlon knew how to get what he wanted, which was a luxury and a comfort; but now he didn’t know what he wanted or how to get it; not even how to articulate it.

And God damn, that was exciting.


End file.
